


40 Miles From Atlanta, This Is Nowhere

by neglectedtuesday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Beacon Hills Has Been Relocated To Georgia, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Character Death, Dark Magic, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Gore, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Morally Ambiguous Peter Hale, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Religion, Sheriff Stilinski's B- Parenting, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Southern Gothic, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: There are names for boys who carry the Bible the way Stiles Stilinski does and none of them are pretty. Stiles holds the good book as if he wants to devour scripture like a coyote devours its prey but there’s a delicacy to it, a fear of the holy. He’s clearly dressed in his father’s suit, the boy is swamped in fabric making him look like a child playing dress up. He’s been silent throughout the funeral, except for mouthing the words to Amazing Grace, but his right hand has been clenching and unclenching. The only physical display of the rage that’s simmering below the surface.





	40 Miles From Atlanta, This Is Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prompt response and just kept growing. I've tried to use as much Southern slang as possible but I am not from the South, so forgive me if anything is off. I will try to fix it. 
> 
> Also I know that most Priests tend to go by their first name but Isaac Lahey's father is just known as Coach Lahey and I didn't fancy making a name up for him, noting that it might be confusing. So for the sake of clarity, we're ignoring the tradition. 
> 
> This fic is quite dark so please read through the tags before reading. Also you can reblog the fic aesthetic I made for it [here](http://neglectedtuesday.tumblr.com/post/177267424818/40-miles-from-atlanta-this-is-nowhere-steter)

There are names for boys who carry the Bible the way Stiles Stilinski does and none of them are pretty. Stiles holds the good book as if he wants to devour scripture like a coyote devours its prey but there’s a delicacy to it, a fear of the holy. He’s clearly dressed in his father’s suit, the boy is swamped in fabric making him look like a child playing dress up. He’s been silent throughout the funeral, except for mouthing the words to  _ Amazing Grace _ , but his right hand has been clenching and unclenching. The only physical display of the rage that’s simmering below the surface. 

 

Sheriff Stilinski asked for a closed casket funeral. Unusual in the South but considering the damage from the car accident, a wise choice. Hale Family Funerals are all about the service, regardless of the request. Peter could tell that John wanted a simple service, nothing too extravagant and they had provided. The Hales are nothing if not thorough. 

 

Peter helps lower Claudia Stilinski’s coffin into the ground, her final resting place. For her body at least. Her ghost is somewhat reluctant to move on. She clings to her husband and son, a heavy weight upon their backs. Particularly Stiles. Claudia wraps herself around Stiles’ skinny frame as if to protect him and meets Peter’s gaze with stubborness in her eye. People always assume ghosts are completely white; skin, clothes and all. It’s a common misconception based on media and folklore. In reality ghosts have a faded quality like a Polaroid photo. The colour’s still there, it’s just not quite clean or saturated.

 

Stiles stands a little apart from the graveside, underneath a few trees covered in spanish moss. Peter doesn’t blame him, it’s a particularly hot day in Georgia and Stiles’ suit must be uncomfortable. Peter considers sending Derek or Laura over to Stiles, seeing as how they’re closer to Stiles twenty-four years than Peter is but something about Stiles’ expression gives him pause. Stiles’ head is tilted to one side, where Claudia is whispering in his ear. She strokes a finger along the shiny red scar that stretches from Stiles hairline, over his left eye to the middle of his cheek, his souvenir from the accident. His expression suggests that he can hear his darling mother. And well, isn’t that curious? 

 

// 

 

“There’s something wrong with the Stilinski boy,” Talia says, casually as if discussing the weather. Peter dips the wooden spoon into the sauce that’s bubbling away on the stove, brings it up to his lips to taste before responding to Talia.

 

“He’s haunted.” Peter adds more salt.

 

“Obviously but it’s something more than that. He’s deeply troubled.”

 

Peter thinks about Claudia’s funeral, Stiles’ head tilted towards his mother’s ghost, soaking up every word like it was gospel. Stiles might have been stoic throughout the service but there was an unmistakable glint of righteous fury hiding in those whiskey eyes. The kind of fury that starts crusades and raises cities, the kind of fury that festers in prophets and kings. 

 

“Claudia was only a hedgewitch, I doubt she passed any serious magic onto Stiles,” Laura says, leaning over Peter to try to taste the sauce. Peter smacks her hand away.

 

“Patience,” Peter says, stirring the sauce. “And just because Claudia wasn’t powerful, doesn’t mean her son won’t be.”

 

“Claudia needs to get where she’s going, she’s tarried far too long.” With that, Talia sweeps from the kitchen, leaving the smell of incense behind her. Laura hops onto the kitchen counter with her back to the cabinets, watching Peter cook. Her eyeliner is particularly heavy today, reminiscent of charcoal and smoke. 

 

“Do you think Claudia is dangerous?” Laura asks. 

 

“Doesn’t matter what her intentions are, it’s time for her to move on and she knows it. Only going to cause more grief by lingering around her family this way.”

 

“But is she dangerous?” Laura presses. “Is she going to hurt someone?”

 

Peter sighs. 

 

“No. But I reckon her son just might.” 

 

//

 

Peter doesn’t stalk Stiles exactly. In a town as small as Beacon Hills, it’s impossible not to run into people you know at the grocery store, or the Longhorn Diner, or just on the street. That being said, Peter is keeping an eye on Stiles and his ghostly companion. Stiles has a restless energy to him, he’s constantly drumming his fingers against his thigh or tapping his foot on the ground. That anxious agitation gives him the demeanour of someone who’d pick a fight with the sky if he didn’t like its particular shade of blue. 

 

Currently Stiles is arguing with a store clerk, trying to return a salmon pink dress that Claudia must have bought before the accident. Claudia stands at her son’s shoulder, watching the whole procedure with narrowed eyes. 

 

“I don’t understand,” Stiles is saying, irritation lurking behind his controlled tone, “the dress hasn’t been worn. It still has the tag on it, why won’t you let me return it?”

 

“I’m sorry Sir but I need the receipt,” the clerk replies, “it’s store policy…”

 

“I know that,” Stiles interrupts her, “you’ve said that but the receipt is currently lost in the wreckage of my mama’s car so I would be grateful if you could waiver store policy this one time for a dress that still has the goddamn price tag on it.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” the clerk repeats, “but I need the receipt.” 

 

Stiles slams his hand on the counter. There’s tension in the line of his shoulders, a quiver like a coiled spring. Claudia has her hand on his shoulder, whispering in Stiles’ ear. Peter’s too far away to hear what she’s saying but the longer she speaks, the angrier Stiles looks. The store clerk takes a step back, uncertainty crossing her face. Stiles mutters something under his breath, something hostile that makes the air taste similar to aluminium and white spirit. Immediately after Stiles straightens up, plasters a smile on his face like a preacher greeting his congregation on Easter morning.

 

“Bless your heart,” he says, “guess I’ll donate it to charity or something.”

 

Stiles turns on his heel, walking away from the counter. He sweeps past Peter with Claudia trailing behind him. She gives Peter a look of smug satisfaction as she passes, the veins on her arms black against her pale skin. 

 

Peter turns back to the clerk. She looks mildly confused before she stumbles, dry heaving several times. She places a hand on the counter, hunching over as her body shudders and spasms. She retches, opening her mouth as something red and sticky tumbles out, splattering on the counter. The clerk starts screaming.

 

On the white plastic is the mangled, bloody corpse of a baby bird.

 

//

 

Stiles causes a few more incidents. Sour ground at the Martin place, all the flowers shrivelled up and nothing able to grow. Poorly skinned remains left on the Whittemore porches, the animals unidentifiable. The stench of decay soaks into the wood so deep that it will never be scrubbed out. And rumours of nightmares, the kind that follow you in the daytime, present in every shadow. 

 

Father Lahey brings all this to the Hales attention. Father Lahey bringing up anything outside of professional remits is unusual as typically he only offers the Hales professional courtesy when a funeral is organised within his church. Polite but not friendly and the politeness only extends so far considering the Hales reputation. Despite what the townsfolk think, there’s no cannibalism or satanism going on in the basement. 

 

“Now don’t go thinking that I openly discuss my congregation’s private matters,” Father Lahey says as he paces around the room. Talia and Peter share a look behind his back. “But something ain’t right about the Stilinski boy. He is in the grip of something evil and is spreading it around our town like a plague.”

 

“You experiences these nightmares yourself?” Peter asks. Father Lahey grits his teeth, turning to look out the window. He shifts the cuff of his shirt to hide the bruise that’s peeking out. 

 

“Stilinski needs to returns to the arms of the Lord if he wishes for his soul to be saved. I would hope y’all would assist me in this matter as to prevent the corruption of someone previously considered innocent.” 

 

Father Lahey leaves soon after, walking stiffly from the house as if he expects to be struck by fire and brimstone for fraternising with rumoured witches. 

 

“I loathe that man,” Talia says, watching Father Lahey get into his car. Peter sits down on the porch swing, wishing he hadn’t decided to give up smoking just so he had something to do with his hands. “But he’s right, Stiles is becoming a problem.”

 

“We need to get him away from Claudia’s influence,” Peter says, “whatever she’s whispering in his ear, she never had the power to do herself.”

 

“How powerful do you think Stiles is?”

 

“More powerful than us. There’s something raw and primal about it, like the taste of lightning on the air before a storm. She keeps leading him down this path and eventually he’s gonna do something he really regrets.”

 

Talia nods. In the distance coyotes holler in the woods and porch lights buzz into being.

 

// 

 

Peter rings the doorbell of the Stilinski place. It’s a rickety thing, peeling white paint and wood that’s seen better days. The Sheriff is a busy man, policing all of Beacon County and Stiles doesn’t seem like a DIY person. There’s a dead houseplant withering away on the porch swing. The pot has two faded yellow handprints on it. One adult, one child. 

 

Stiles opens the front door but not the screen. He leans against the doorframe, looking over Peter with tired eyes. He’s dressed in a burgundy plaid shirt and dark jeans. His sneakers are old, the colour ruined by rain and dirt. Out of his father's clothes, he’s a muscular boy about as tall as Peter. 

 

“Can I help you?” Stiles asks. His voice is quiet, softened by exhaustion. 

 

“I’m sure you can. Is the Sheriff about?”

 

Stiles shrugs. “He’s at the station, was it him you wanted?”

 

“No,” Peter says, looking over Stiles’ shoulder to where Claudia is hovering in the hallway. All the veins on her body are pitch black, the whites of her eyes like bleached bone. “It was you I wanted to talk to.”

 

Stiles stands up straight, folding his arm across his chest. Claudia flickers in and out of focus in the background, a loud, angry hum emitting from her body like white noise. Stiles winces like it’s all he can hear. 

 

“You eaten yet?” Peter asks. Stiles shakes his head. “Hows about we go to the Longhorn? I’ll buy you a burger or something.”

 

Stiles’ head twitches like he wants to look back at Claudia. Peter deliberately shifts his head to look past Stiles and directly at her. 

 

“Hows about we leave your mama behind?” 

 

Stiles eyes widen. Claudia floats forward, teeth bared. Stiles holds up a hand. Claudia stops, eyes attempting to burn a hole in Peter’s forehead. It’s early evening, the sun low in the sky and the temperature still pretty high but being in Claudia’s presence makes the hair on Peter’s arms stand on end.

 

“Stay... stay behind mama. I won’t be long.”

 

“ _ S t i l e s _ ,” Claudia says, her voice like a skipping record playing in another room.

 

“I said stay mama,” Stiles says. The light fixtures shake, rattling with the force of Stiles command. Peter tastes metal in his mouth. Copper pennies and bourbon. 

 

//

 

The Longhorn isn’t busy. Only a few tired truck drivers at the counter, sipping lukewarm beers and watching college football on an tiny TV. Stiles sprawls across the red vinyl booth like a king in a Shakespeare play. In the Longhorn diner’s stark lighting, the skin around Stiles’ scar looks pallid. There are bags beneath Stiles’ eyes, bruised blue from sleepless nights no doubt. Stiles would look handsome if he didn’t look so run down. 

 

“I always figured that the rumours about your family were grounded in some kind of truth,” Stiles says, tilting his head to one side as he looks Peter up and down. Peter notes how Stiles’ eyes linger on Peter’s chest and biceps. 

 

“You’re starting to generate some rumours yourself,” Peter comments, grabbing a laminated menu. Knowing the Longhorn, they won’t be served for at least half an hour given that the staff tend to appear when they please. Peter’s not even sure what the cook looks like, only ever glimpsing a tanned hand with a gold wedding band putting plates through the serving hatch. The jukebox in the corner flips onto a new record and Parker Millsap starts playing. 

 

“Maybe so,” Stiles replies, “but I ain’t doing nothing to these people that they don’t deserve.” He says it with such conviction, as if he’s practised that exact line in the mirror over and over until he was convinced. His stance is open but his eyes are guarded. He’s waiting for the reprimand, for the reply that is catalytic enough to spark an argument so he can defend his line of thinking without listening to the other side. 

 

“You think so?” 

 

“I know so. Next time you see Isaac Lahey, maybe pay attention to the bruises he tries to hide.”

 

“That why Father Lahey looks like he went ten rounds in a ring with a honey badger.” Stiles laughs, mirthless and bitter.

 

“Let’s just say Father Lahey should have paid more attention to the story of Cain in Sunday School.” Stiles pauses, licking his bottom lip before continuing. “Why do you care about the people in this town anyway? It’s not like they’ve ever paid your family any kindness. Ignorant as all hell, all they do is ban books and use their religion to preach hate, all while getting their information about the outside world from Fox news, pretending that’s a reliable source cause it fits with their narrow fucking worldview. Still believe in their revisionist view of history, acting out the civil war as if they can change the ending and believing the south will rise again if they keep flying the goddamn flag. They deserve more than a few sleepless nights.” 

 

“Even that store clerk?” 

 

Stiles looks away. The action makes Stiles shirt slip and Peter spots a scar at the curve of Stiles’ neck.

 

“Personally I don’t much care for the people of this town,” Peter says, raising a hand to flag down a waitress who’s finally appeared from the back room. “I mean there’s tree stumps in Louisiana swamps with a higher IQs and I reckon they’re due something to make their repentance more believable. Yes, I’ll have the shrimp and okra gumbo and about two fingers of whiskey, please and thank you.”

 

“Fried chicken with curly fries please,” Stiles says. The waitress nods, scrawling their orders on her pad before drifting back to the kitchen. Her scarlet heels hit the floor in time with music. 

 

“But I am concerned about you,” Peter continues, “your mama seems to be whispering some very dark things into your ear. Eventually she’s gonna convince you to do something you’ll regret.” 

 

“You’re telling me that you have no pity for the townsfolk, yet seem awful concerned about what happens to them?” Stiles leans his elbows on the table, eyes darting down to Peter’s lips. 

 

“Your actions reflect badly on our coven,” Peter says bluntly. “Now, I’m not too attached to the people here but the Hales have owned property here for generations. We’re awful attached to the land.” Stiles snorts. 

 

“How white colonialist of you.” 

 

“You’re powerful Stiles but you need to be trained. Keep going down this path and you’ll do something you won’t be able to come back from. The Sheriff’s already lost his wife, seems cruel for him to lose his son as well.” 

 

Stiles laughs, leaning back. 

 

“Interesting tactic, although bringing my Dad up as leverage isn’t going to win you any favors.” 

 

“Noted. So how about this? We both know that Claudia needs to go.”

 

The waitress places Peter’s whiskey on the table in a manner that is both polite yet somehow unwelcoming. It’s a few shades darker than Stiles eyes; back of the shelf stuff that burns Peter’s throat on the way down. Stiles stares up at the cow skull on the wall next to them. He appears to be considering Peter’s words with a forlorn acceptance. 

 

“She’s losing herself,” Peter continues, “stuck between the cracks of reality. Whatever made her good, made her human is gone and if she stays it’s only going to get worse.” 

 

Stiles runs a hand over his face. The waitress brings their food. She looks different than before. Her face is the same except her mouth and eyes are pale imitations of what they should be. Stitched together like the faded photograph of a memory. Stiles looks at the waitress, sighing softly. 

 

“Go home mama,” he says, exhausted and sad. The lights flicker, the pictures and animals skulls vibrate on the walls while the waitress opens her mouth and lets out a terrible shriek. Mournful and angry, the kind of wailing rage that Achilles might have screamed for Patroklos. Stiles waves his hand and Claudia is pushed out of the waitress’s body, disappearing into nothing. The lights dim before flaring back to full brightness and the decor stops rattling. The waitress shakes her head, plastering on that conflicted smile of polite disdain. 

 

“Enjoy your food, you let me know if you need anything else.” 

 

Peter smiles, more charm than sincerity. Stiles picks at his curly fries, morosely nibbling at the end of a long, loose curl. Peter spears a piece of okra. 

 

“How do we…” Stiles pauses, searching for the right wording. 

 

“Help her get where she needs to go,” Peter supplies. Stiles nods. “Don’t worry, Talia and I will help you. Eat your food, you’re run ragged and you can’t be doing all this magic on a empty stomach.”

 

Stiles nods again, reaching for the ketchup. They eat in silence, Vudu Sister playing on the jukebox and sunset casting an sandstone glow over them. 

 

//

 

Moths cluster around the Stilinski’s porch light. Someone, somewhere is listening to  _ Country Roads _ on the radio. Stiles sits in a wicker chair, uncomfortable like a relative waiting for news in a hospital waiting room. Laura and Talia are inside, cleansing the house with clove and vervain. Peter waits with Stiles, keeping the boy calm or at the very least, out the way. Peter leans against the porch railing, watching Stiles with soft curiosity. 

 

Stiles is a boy filled with too much power and too much rage. A righteous, revenge-like fury that’s burning him from the inside out, fueled by the grief of his mother’s passing, her refusal to leave and the difficulty of growing up in a town where the people have marked you as other. Stiles inhabits his otherness like he’s only just discovers shoes that fit him perfectly, although he’s starting to get blisters as he breaks them in. 

 

Peter can relate. He understands that kind of anger, the glittering, obsidian void of it that drowns you completely. He looks at Stiles and thinks about himself, a few years younger than Stiles is now. Thinks about his parents, the Argent coven, the lick of flames and the glorious feeling of watching the light leave Kate’s eyes. He’s struck by a desire to reach out to Stiles, smooth away the creases on Stiles’ forehead with a tender touch; a desire to show his own scars and tell Stiles of his own wrath, how it simmers patiently in veins, never quite satisfied and never quite gone. 

 

Laura appears in the doorway. Stiles jumps up at her presence, coltish limbs unsteady on the sun bleached wood. 

 

“We’re ready,” Laura says, beckoning them inside.

 

“What’s going to happen?” Stiles asks. 

 

“We’re going to help your mama pass over properly,” Laura explains. They walk into the living room, where the furniture has been pushed up against the walls to make room for the cleansing ritual. Talia is placing candles at the four points of the compass, chanting softly. Stiles pauses at the edge of the chalk circle, studying the markings with mild interest. 

 

“You’ll have to summon her,” Laura continues, “we’ll do the rest.” 

 

“Is it…” Stiles pauses, looking from Laura to Peter and back again. “Is it going to hurt her?”

 

“It’s going to hurt her more staying here,” Peter says, placing a hand on Stiles shoulder. Stiles leans into the touch briefly before shaking it off, as if used to denying himself such things. He moves away from Peter and paces the edge of the circle, chewing his lip until it splits. Stiles then excuses himself to the kitchen to deal with the blood. Peter shares a brief, concerned look with Talia before following. 

 

Stiles leans over the sink, dabbing at his lip with a dish towel. He sighs, dropping the towel on the counter and running a hand through his hair. 

 

“It’s not fair,” Stiles mutters, “it feels like losing her all over again, like she’s dirt slipping through my fingers.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, knowing the platitude is useless but not sure what else to say. Stiles looks at Peter, his expression softening slightly.

 

“You know, I have heard people say that over and over these past few weeks. But from you, I trust your sincerity.” 

 

“I don’t want you to be in pain.” Peter is almost startled by the honesty in that statement but it is honesty nonetheless. Stiles tilts his head. 

 

“You really don’t.”

 

Talia enters the kitchen and the strange candour of moment dissipates. 

 

“We should start,” Talia says. Stiles nods and sets about hiding the fear and anguish glimmering in his eyes. 

 

//

 

Stiles’ face looks even more sunken in the flickering candlelight. A touch of Hazel Motes in the plain outline of his skull beneath the skin. He stands at the candle placed at North; Peter at South; Laura at West; Talia at East. The wind screams against the windows, trying to worm its way through the shutters. 

 

“Mama,” Stiles says, his voice low and coaxing. “Come on out now.”

 

Claudia blooms into being, the edges of her form blurred but her centre so distinct. Black veins, bleached skin and the sour sweet scent of rotten fruit. 

 

“ _ Stiles _ ,” Claudia murmurs. She reaches a hand out but is stopped by the barrier. “ _ S t i l e s. _ ” 

 

“You need to be going mama.” Stiles’ voice is steady. “I believe you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

 

“ _ How can I  o v e r s t a y  in my own house? _ ”

 

Peter, Talia and Laura begin chanting. They keep their voices low, the words rhythmic and song-like. Claudia begins to fade at the edges. She drops to her knees, clawing at the chalk barrier but making no dent. 

 

“ _ You’d let them t a k e me! Stiles, please! P l e a s e! _ ” Claudia’s screams sound like the howling of wolves who’ve discovered the moon plucked from the sky. Stiles watches her with a face of stone save for the tears streaming from his eyes. 

 

“I’m sorry mama.”

 

Claudia slips away into nothingness. The room becomes silent, hollow with recent loss and the air acidic with grief and guilt. Stiles gazes at the place his mother vanished, eyes unfocused and glassy. He quietly drifts from the room, heading for the back door onto the porch. Everyone pretends that they don’t hear Stiles’ mourning in the backyard.

 

//

 

Peter finds Stiles a few days later in the graveyard, standing before his mother’s grave. He looks a little better, his skin healthier and anxious energy somewhat tamed. He’s dressed in a green t-shirt and brown trousers, inadvertently looking like  _ Shaggy  _ from  _ Scooby Doo. _

 

“Do the townsfolk still fear you hiding in the dark?” Peter asks. Stiles smirks.

 

“Only a few.” Stiles turns his head to look towards the church where Isaac Lahey is sweeping the steps. Father Lahey appears in the doorway, beckoning Isaac inside and casting a dirty look at Stiles. Stiles waves. The church door slams shut.

 

“Would it not be better to tell your father of your suspicions?” 

 

“It’s only worth something if Isaac confirms it and he’s nervous as a long tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Besides, Father Lahey is a God fearing man, about time he started acting like it.”

 

Peter laughs. Stiles starts laughing too, and what a pair they must look like. Stiles uses his whole body when he laughs. He looks instantly lighter, all the sorrow and guilt melting off him. 

 

“So why are you hanging around in the cemetery?” Stiles asks, wiping a tear from his ear. “I mean besides the obvious.”

 

“The obvious?”

 

“You’re both a funeral director and a witch, I’m sure there are hundreds of reasons for you to be lurking in a cemetery.” 

 

Peter rolls his eyes. Stiles shrugs, grinning. 

 

“I came to see how you were feeling,” Peter says, “and whether you had given any more thought to our offer?”

 

Stiles looks to his mother’s gravestone. He murmurs something too low for Peter to hear before turning back. Stiles walks past Peter, making a come-on gesture and Peter follows. They walk between the graves, side by side, heading for the exit. 

 

“I know my mama had a gift,” Stiles says, idly scratching a bug bite on his arm, “though it wasn’t as strong as mine is. I reckon I’ll need a lot of teaching given that mama wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.”

 

They reach the cemetery gate, which creaking in the breeze. The plastic sign beside the gate reads:  **YOU’RE ON GOD’S MOST WANTED LIST.** Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes at Father Lahey’s complete lack of subtlety. 

 

“You’ll be part of the coven, which means training and protection. We’ll give you a job in the mortuary to give you an excuse to come around on a regular basis.”

 

Stiles stops in his tracks, mouth agape. 

 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

 

“I’m kidding, you’re not qualified to be handling the deceased in any capacity. We’ll have you cleaning and filing paperwork and maybe answering phones.”

 

“Oh great, sounds thrilling. All that money spent on college to end up answering phones.” 

 

“What are you currently using your college degree for? Because if I remember rightly, you are unemployed.” 

 

“Bite me.”

 

“Only if you say please.” 

 

Stiles shoves at Peter’s shoulder, rolling his eyes but with only a hint of exasperation in his smile.

 

//

 

Stiles is a fast learner, both of magic and his new job although he objects to the formal wear expected of Hale Family Funeral employees. He spends all day tugging at the shirt collar like it’s choking him and when he takes his break, he sheds the blazer and rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. He looks good in clothes that fit him.

 

“I sweat like a sinner in church in these damn clothes,” Stiles mutters over and over, as if through repetition, Talia will relent and let him wear t-shirts. Talia sticks him on reception, answering the phone and being the first friendly face the clients see. Despite Stiles initial reservations, he can be exceedingly charming, oozing southern hospitality and putting the clients at ease when once he disturbed and frightened them. Although, there’s a hint of horror at the edge of his delightful smile, a promise of the serpent underneath. 

 

He also keeps trying to sneak peach cobbler into their freezer. Peter catches him, cobbler in one hand, frozen peas in the other. Stiles smiles awkwardly, looking down to the cobbler and back up to Peter.

 

“People kept bringing us cobbler,” Stiles says, “I just… the goddamn fridge is full of the stuff. I’m sick of it and well, trying to keep my Dad healthy.” 

 

“So you thought you’d upload it onto us,” Peter replies, taking the tupperware out of Stiles’ hand. He peers inside, recognising by scent and crust that it’s a Grandma Boyd family recipe. Stiles puts the peas back where he found them, getting to his feet and gently closing the freezer door. Peter puts the tupperware on the kitchen counter, watching the way Stiles retreats into himself in his awkwardness. Peter decides to take pity on him.

 

“Relax, our coven may not all live under this roof but they pass through often enough. It’ll get eaten.”

 

Stiles relaxes. He smiles at Peter, a gentle half remembered smile as if he hasn’t had cause to do so in a while. It’s different to his usual cocky smirk and Peter finds himself thinking on it with a strange longing to be the only one who gets to experience it.

 

//

 

Peter dreams of Stiles at night. Sometimes scenes he’s seen before; Stiles on the veranda, bathed in the light of the setting sun and looking holy enough to be something truly divine; Stiles, leaning over to taste something Peter has cooked for him, licking the wooden spoon and making a noise that has Peter’s gut clenching with arousal. Though often, it’s scenarios that Peter longs for; Stiles, naked and lazy, spread out against the red sheets of Peter’s bed, a trail of obvious hickeys marking Peter’s territory; Stiles, desperate, panting, demanding as he rides Peter, those large hands gripping the headboard and his pink mouth slack with pleasure. 

 

Peter dreams of what he does not yet have, of what he wants more than anything but it reminds him to be patient. To take what Stiles is willing to give. Stiles isn’t ready, not just yet and Peter respects that. It doesn’t stop him fantasizing though. 

 

//

 

Anyone that thinks Stiles is no longer dangerous now that he’s working for the Hales is a fool. Perpetually working father and dead mother is a combination that results in a lot of time alone with nothing but your own thoughts for company. Claudia may not be haunting Stiles anymore but that doesn’t mean the boy isn’t still tormented by the void she left behind. Rage is something that carves a space for itself, scraping away at flesh and muscle and sinew so that it can fester happily inside. 

 

Peter tries to keep Stiles distracted, feeding the boy’s love of knowledge and more often than not physically feeding him. 

 

“I can cook you know,” Stiles protests lamely, standing in the kitchen doorway as he watches Peter dice potatoes. Peter tosses a potato into the air, catching it with his knife. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

 

“Indulge me Stiles,” Peter says, “my family don’t allow me to be adventurous when it comes to cooking and I’ve been wanting to try this recipe out.”

 

“So I’m your guinea pig.”

 

“Exactly, now set the table.”

 

Sometimes, if the day has been particularly taxing, Peter takes Stiles out to dinner. Magic expends a lot of energy, both emotionally and physically, and Stiles has a habit of pushing himself harder than he needs to. It’s almost like he’s trying to make up for lost time or attempting to fill in as many gaps as possible in a bid to stop himself from leaking magic all over the place like a sieve. Stiles might be looking healthier but the bags under his eyes are ever present. 

 

“Are you sleeping ok?” Peter asks, reaching for the salt. Stiles shrugs, poking his omelette absentmindedly with his fork. The Longhorn is particularly busy tonight, loud with raucous laughter and the scraping of metal cutlery on china plates. Due to the large number of their party, Stiles and Peter have a small table of two, tucked away in a corner whilst the rest of the family are squashed together in a booth. Cora keeps knocking her elbow against Derek’s and complaining about it. Loudly. 

 

“I’m not,  _ not _ sleeping,” Stiles says, twirling the fork in his hand. “I get about four to five hours roughly. It’s not even nightmares, it’s just hard to fall asleep. I can’t get comfortable, I feel, I don’t know, restless I guess.” 

 

Peter opens his mouth to reply but stops when he notices how Stiles eyes have gone wide. Stiles slips down in his seat, trying to hide himself from view. Peter turns, following Stiles line of sight to the door where Jackson Whittemore and his group of idiot cronies have just entered. Stiles has stopped decorating the Whittemore porch with animal parts but no matter how hard they try, the Whittemore’s can’t get the stench of death out of the wood. Peter hasn’t asked what Jackson Whittemore did to Stiles, can only assume given Jackson’s entitled, arrogant attitude, it was something hurtful and insensitive. Jackson looks over the diner, presumably looking for a big enough table that he can bully into obtaining when he spots Peter and Stiles. His lip curls.

 

“We better go elsewhere boys, with that freak here, there’ll be eyeballs in the gumbo,” Jackson says, his voice carrying over the chatter. The cronies laugh, a chorus of jeers and mockery like vultures on a branch watching the slow demise of deer. “I don’t even know why he shows his face in public, what with that god awful scar. He should do us all a favor and stay indoors, or better yet, skip town. I bet there’s a travelling circus missing an attraction that’d take him.”

 

“Shut yo’ mouth Whittemore,” Cora says, “if we wanted the opinion of the local asshole, well I doubt we’d ask since all of yours are shit.” 

 

Jackson ignores her, though some of his cronies make lewd gestures in her direction. Cora attempts to stand up but Derek puts a hand on her shoulder, shaking his head. The whole diner has fallen into silent stillness, all eyes watching the exchange, the patience audience waiting for blood. 

 

“Just gonna sit there Stilinski,” Jackson taunts, “not so brave now the Hales are holding your leash.”

 

Stiles is looking down at his lap, breathing shallowly through his nose. His right fist clenches and unclenches at his side. 

 

“Come on freak! Or do you only do stuff after dark like a pathetic creep?”

 

Stiles stands up, teeth bared. Peter reaches over, taking Stiles left hand. Stiles startles at the touch, looking down at Peter. There’s threads of gold in his eyes, bright amber magic coursing through him looking for an outlet. Peter shakes his head. Stiles lets himself be guided back to his seat. 

 

“Thought so,” Jackson says, “no wonder your mama drove her…”

 

Jackson doesn’t finish his sentence as Vernon Boyd grabs the back of Jackson’s jacket and drags him outside. Boyd pushes Jackson out into the humid night and holds the door open for the cronies to trickle out. A few cronies get up in Boyd’s face, trying to intimidate him but Boyd remains nonplussed. The group takes off in Jackson’s pick up, hollering and tossing back cheap beer. Boyd re-enters the diner, gives Stiles a short but understanding nod and goes back to taking table eight’s order. 

 

Stiles pushes his plate away and doesn’t eat anything else for the rest of the night. 

 

//

 

Peter pulls up outside Stiles’ house. He reaches out to reassure Stiles but the boy has already gotten out of the car. Stiles slams the door with a finality that suggests he wants to be left alone. Peter gets out of his car anyway. 

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Leave me alone, please. I don’t want to talk about it.” 

 

“I want to check you’re ok.”   
  


Stiles turns around to face Peter. His irises flicker, burning, liquid gold. Thunder rumbles overhead, strange considering the sky has been empty of clouds all evening. 

 

“Stiles,” Peter says, aiming for placating, “you need to control…”   
  


“Don’t tell me to control myself!” Stiles shouts. Lightning strikes the sidewalk to Peter’s left. Peter doesn’t flinch. He won’t be cowed by Stiles’ little displays of power, no matter how awe inspiring they may be. Stiles is beautiful and deadly but Peter is no pushover. 

 

“Stiles, I care about you, I want to check that you are ok,” Peter states, blunt and to the point. Stiles is clenching his fists so hard that blood is trickling from his palms. 

 

From the end of the street comes the whining roar of a pick up. Jackson’s truck lurches around the corner, minus the plethora of cronies from earlier in the night. The tires screech as Jackson brakes close by. Peter has to hold a hand up to shield his eyes from the headlights. Jackson switches the engine off, lumbering out of the truck to join them outside. He’s drunk but not so much so that he can’t stand or hurl abuse. 

 

“Come on Stilinski, you twisted fucker, let’s have it!” 

 

“Go home Whittemore,” Peter says. Jackson flips him off. 

 

“Ain’t nothing to do with you Hale. Between me and this here yaller dog. Leaving dead animals on my porch like some… some kind of freak!” Jackson slips into his southern accent when inebriated it seems, the lack of filter allowing for the return of childhood speech. 

 

Peter turns to usher Stiles inside but stops once he sees Stiles’ eyes. They’re entirely amber, glimmering brightly in the streetlight glow. Stiles tilts his head to one side, reaching out his right hand. He does a strange motion with his wrist, a sort of flick and Jackson drops to his knees.

 

Jackson eyes widen. Blood begins to pour out of his left eye, streaming down his face as a thin, black snake forces its way out of the corner. Jackson opens his mouth, a red snake emerging from his throat. Peter looks at the ground as snakes emerge from the grass, winding their way through the grass to bind Jackson with their bodies, until he’s lost beneath the writhing mass. The night air is thick with the sound of hissing. 

 

“I suppose you want me to stop,” Stiles says. An eastern coral snake has wound its way around Stiles hand. He cradles it delicately, smirking when the snake flicks its forked tongue out against Stiles’ cheek. 

 

“Are you going to kill him?” Peter asks. Thunder rumbles once more overhead. Stiles shrugs. 

 

“Probably not.” 

 

“Then I suppose Jackson can learn his lesson for a little longer.”

 

Stiles grins at Peter, feral, frightening creature that he is. In that moment Peter wants nothing more than to take Stiles to bed and devour him. It begins to rain, a heavy downpour that cuts through the moment, shifting and changing it into something new. Peter still wants to bed Stiles but is content to wait. 

 

Tomorrow Jackson will wake up in the back of his pickup truck next to the reservoir with no memory of how he got there, the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth and a newfound fear of snakes curling in his stomach. 

 

// 

 

Peter’s sat at the dining table, going over the accounts but through the open door he can see into the living room where Stiles is teaching Derek and Laura how to play poker. They’re are still in their mortuary gear, plastic goggles balanced on their heads. Stiles shuffles the cards with practised ease, rattling off the rules to Texas Hold’em. 

 

“Right, opening deal,” Stiles says, sliding cards across the coffee table. The afternoon sun is streaming through the shutters, dappling Stiles skin with tiny clusters of golden triangles that ripple and shift. It’s moments like this that remind Peter how soft Stiles can be. For all the hard edges, the bitter smiles, the vicious insults, Stiles is still just a person seeking friendship and understanding. Derek snorts at a joke Stiles makes, Laura pushes at Stiles’ shoulder playfully. For a while, the shadows that linger in Stiles’ eyes disappear, replaced with genuine happiness. 

 

Peter closes the account books, getting up from the table. He walks into the living room, the noise causing Stiles’ head to turn. Stiles smiles when he sees Peter, shifting across the sofa to make room. Peter sits, close enough for their shoulders to press against each other. Stiles smells like sweat and Tom Ford cologne, black orchid and spice. 

 

“Deal me in,” Peter says. Stiles does, his fingers deliberately brushing against Peter’s as he hands over the cards. They play cards all afternoon, Laura losing spectacularly due to her lack of poker face. In later years, Peter holds one image of this memory with distinct clarity. Stiles, head thrown back in laughter, the taut line of his throat exposed and vulnerable, and the pure joy emanating from him like Stiles has been lit up from the inside. 

 

//

 

There’s a house by the road where nobody goes. The house burnt down and no one rebuilt it, it just stands there, a decaying husk. The wind whistles through it, a low, mournful howl of a life long lost to time. Soon it will be reclaimed by nature, the vines creeping up the side are patching the structure together so they can drag it back down to the dirt. 

 

There’s a house by the road where nobody goes. Except tonight a light appears in one of the shattered windows. A little, flickering sign of life. The wind competes with hushed voices, clicking footsteps, the wet slap of knuckles against skin, the trickling of blood, muffled screams and the silence of death. 

 

There’s a house by the road where nobody goes. Now it’s home to a body, as bruised and broken as the burnt out shell. A local church is missing a preacher, a local boy is missing an abusive father, a body missing its identifying features. Strange how such things can get lost in the bayou. 

 

There’s a house by the road where nobody goes. Except for a brief few hours, where it was witness to a coven. A coven now headed for Beacon Hills. 

 

//

 

“Don’t you think it’s weird that our town is called Beacon Hills, but there’s no, you know, actual hills?” Stiles says, pushing the buggy slowly behind Peter. Peter grabs a few peaches, bringing them up to his nose to smell them and ignores Stiles question. Stiles  _ accidentally  _ steers the buggy into Peter’s legs in response. 

 

“Yes,” Peter says, placing the peaches inside the buggy, “it’s very strange. A mystery for the ages. Now come along, I don’t want to spend all day here.” 

 

They’re standing at the checkout, waiting to be served when Peter smells it. The tang of gasoline and dried blood. The cloying scent of expensive cologne. It seems caught on the breeze when the doors open, fluttering inside along with a bunch of white leaflets that blow around them. Peter plucks one out of the air. It reads:  **NOW IS THE TIME OF SALVATION! BEACON HILLS CHURCH - UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT.**

 

Stiles takes the leaflet from Peter’s hand, studying the words while biting his lip. 

 

“What happened to Father Lahey?” Stiles asks. 

 

“I’m not sure,” Peter replies, “but I guess we better make ourselves acquainted with our new partners.” 

 

Stiles pockets the leaflet. 

 

//

 

The sign outside the Beacon Hills Church reads:  **WAKE UP SINNERS! THE DEVIL GETS HIS DUE!** Stiles raises an eyebrow, snorting. 

 

“OK, even Father Lahey wasn’t this… ostentatious,” Stiles says. 

 

“Well, there’s a ten dollar word if ever I heard one,” a soft, English voice says. Stiles and Peter turn to face the speaker. Standing in the gateway is a tall, sandy haired man, dressed in a black suit, a black shirt with a white clerical collar and smart black brogues. He’s wearing round black sunglasses with gold frames and carrying a white cane with a red tip in his right hand. He smiles at them with the kind of friendliness that borders on sinister. 

 

“I’m guessing you’re the new management,” Stiles observes, dragging his eyes across the man’s form with suspicion. 

 

“I guess I am. Father Deucalion, at your service. And who might you be?”

 

“Peter Hale,” Peter says, “of Hale Family Funerals.”

 

“Ah, I suspect we shall be seeing a lot of each other, if you’ll pardon the joke.” Deucalion says, tapping the side of his glasses with his index finger. The excitement in his tone makes Peter feel unsettled. Coupled with Deucalion’s smile, he’s is beginning to wonder what exactly Deucalion is here for.  

 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Stiles says, folding his arms across his chest, “where is Isaac Lahey?” 

 

“Hmm, oh the boy. I suspect he’s at the local police station filling out a form concerning his missing father. Very strange that disappearance, leaving one’s flock unattended so abruptly.”

 

“And what, you were called in to substitute?” Peter can tell by Stiles tone that he’s not buying whatever Deucalion is trying to sell. Deucalion smiles enigmatically. 

 

“My dear boy, in this day and age, an abandoned flock is not something to be taken lightly. The devil has many ways to tempt the good away from their path and without someone such as myself to guide them, how are we to keep the righteous away from temptation?” 

 

“Do you believe people are so easily swayed?” 

 

“I believe with the right incentive, anyone can be swayed,” Deucalion replies. The air takes on a static charge, lightning meeting ozone and Peter wants to take Stiles away from here. 

 

“Nice to meet you Father,” Peter says, placing a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “But we best be going, lots to do.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Deucalion says, “I’ll be sure to see you in church this coming Sunday.” 

 

“Sure,” Peter replies, leading Stiles away. He can feel Deucalion’s gaze on their retreating backs, incredibly unnerving from a man who’s supposedly blind. 

 

//

 

They find Isaac Lahey sitting on a bench outside the Sheriff’s station, drinking sweet tea out of a cheap takeaway cup. His clothes look a few seasons old, there are noticeable signs of wear and tear. He’s also wearing a scarf despite the heat. Isaac regards them with neutral expression, swirling the plastic straw around the edges of the cup. 

 

“You alright?” Stiles asks, dropping down onto the bench next to Isaac. Peter remains standing, unable to shake the feeling they’re being watched. 

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Isaac replies sullenly. Stiles nudges Isaac in the ribs. 

 

“Cause your home is currently occupied by a creepy blind preacher with an accent like a Bond villain and your Dad is suddenly missing. Not that I care much about your Dad but there’s something suspicious going on.”

 

“Gold star Stilinski, you come up with that theory all by yourself.” 

 

Peter has never really spoken to Isaac outside of pleasantries, and assumed the boy was as stiffly awkward and polite as he appeared to be. Peter isn’t sure what to make of this sarcastic cherub faced mess of a boy. 

 

“As much as I love our witty repartee, it’d be better if you cut the attitude and tell us what the hell’s going on.”

 

Isaac looks at his feet, breathing out a long sigh. When he does so, the scarf shifts and Peter can see the mottled fingerprint bruises on Isaac’s neck. 

 

“He disappeared last night,” Isaac says, “asshole had thrown a glass at me and I was picking up the pieces when the doorbell rang. He went to answer and then, I don’t know, it was like the air changed, like the taste of it changed. You know when you lick a battery just to see how it tastes, it was bitter like that. Then he was gone and the house was quiet. I went to bed and woke up to a cult in my kitchen.”

 

“A cult?” Peter asks. Isaac nods.    
  


“You met Deucalion, he’s their leader. Man may have taken his sight, but the Lord has gifted him with the true vision and it is his mission to guide sinners into God’s arms. There’s Kali, his right hand woman, dressed all pretty like a Southern belle but clearly uncomfortable in those kinds of clothes. Ennis, built like a brick shithouse, looked like the top button on his shirt was gonna pop off with the size of his neck. Then there’s the twins. Identical twins. They don’t fucking speak but they move in tandem and it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, I got out of there as quickly as possible.” 

 

“They tell you why they’re here?” Stiles asks. Isaac shrugs. 

 

“Hell if I know, but they’re powerful and I reckon I ain’t gonna find what’s left of my Dad.” Isaac runs a hand through his curls, pulling on them in a way that must be painful. Stiles makes him stop, does it with the ease of someone who has had a lot of practise. It only confirms what Peter already knows, Stiles may be full of righteous rage but that only makes him more fiercely protective of those he considers under his care. 

 

“You still got a spare key?” Stiles asks. Isaac nods, rifling through his jacket pocket to produce it. “Good, you’re gonna live with me for the time being. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge, you can borrow some of my clothes, you remember where the spare towels are right?” 

 

“What are you gonna be doing?” 

 

“I’m gonna have a word with my Pops about the recent changes in management and then I’m gonna find out how to evict them.”

 

Peter takes note of the wildfire burning in Stiles’ eyes and decides that following Stiles is a much better idea then getting in his way.

 

//

 

Peter has little respect for John Stilinski. John’s decision to bury his grief by burying himself in his work makes him noticeable by his absence in the Stilinski household and Peter has no patience for it. As such, it’s very clear that John would do anything for his son, given that any formal complaints made about Stiles behaviour in the last few months have never been investigated and Stiles would probably owe his entire paycheck in speeding tickets if John wasn’t getting him out of them. John Stilinski clearly cannot handle his grief and thus cannot handle his son’s grief. 

 

“We’re looking into it,” John says, attempting to usher Stiles from the building. “But Mr. Lahey has only just made the missing person’s report, you have to give us time to formulate a plan son.” 

 

His tone speaks of years of stopping Stiles from peering into files and attempting to investigate on his own. There’s a practised patience there, a soft encouragement in the opposite direction but not a desire to crush the curiosity. Peter’s struck by the thought of Stiles as a child, standing on tiptoes to look at the files on his father’s desk, John calmly lifting Stiles in his lap but closing the files to stop Stiles being witness to something horrifying. Peter thinks that Stiles grew up into the horrifying things that lurk in police files anyway. 

 

“A freaking cult moved in, in the space of twenty-four hours and Father Lahey, what, took an spontaneous vacation minus his son?” 

 

“I’m not saying it’s not suspicious. Your desire to play concerned citizen is touching Stiles, we are looking into it but we can’t do it effectively if you are cluttering up the office.” 

 

“But…”

 

“No buts except yours out the door. Thank you for stopping by, I’ll see you at home.” 

 

Peter, wisely, doesn’t make a derogatory remark about how unlikely that is, instead putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and steering him towards the exit. Stiles scowls at the Sheriff’s station when they get outside. He turns to look at Peter, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. 

 

“What now?” Peter asks. 

 

“I guess we wait for them to play their hand. Then act accordingly.” 

 

Stiles has that tone of conviction again, the sound of someone willing to go to war. A kettle of vultures flap overhead. Peter takes it for the omen that it is. 

 

//

 

Weeks go by and Father Lahey’s body remains undiscovered. If there’s even a body to find. Deucalion and his loyal followers insert themselves into the community with a charm slick like snake oil. Father Lahey, it seems, for all his fire and brimstone preaching was tolerated more than liked. He didn’t have the natural charisma Deucalion appears to possess.

 

Deucalion makes Peter’s skin crawl. Whenever Peter is in close proximity to Deucalion, he is overcome with a sensation not dissimilar to plunging one’s hand into a bucket of writhing maggots. Deucalion looks, and he is looking, blindness be damned, at Stiles with a fervent desire. A kind of possessive glee as if delighted with Stiles’ utter contempt for him, perhaps because Deucalion is under the delusion that if he keeps being charming eventually Stiles will be swayed. Peter loathes this tactic though is happy that Stiles hates it to. 

 

“I just wish he would leave me the fuck alone,” Stiles says, breaking his bread roll apart to dip it into the soup. They’re on Stiles’ back porch, nursing beers and watching the stars blink into existence. “The Twins followed me around the grocery store last week, they’re so fucking creepy.”

 

The Twins are indeed creepy. They’re entirely silent, simply trailing around after Deucalion like hired muscle, not paid for their opinions.The whole pack of them are disturbing in their own individual ways. Ennis has a nasty habit of cracking his knuckles whenever there’s a lull in conversation and the world is silent for a minute. 

 

During the day, the heat was unforgiving but the breeze has picked up, gentle and sweet. Adia Victoria is playing on the radio in harmony with the crickets and buzz of porch lights. Stiles clicks his forefinger and thumb to create a flame, toasting the bits of bread roll he’s broken up. 

 

“I just wish they’d just do something, you know. Something worth fighting them for.”

 

Peter nods, putting his empty bowl down. 

 

“I don’t like the way Deucalion looks at you,” Peter confesses, keeping his voice low and soft. 

 

“I don’t like the way he looks at me,” Stiles mutters, tossing toasted bread pieces into his soup. 

 

“He looks at you like he wants to own you.”

 

“And that privilege only falls to you, does it?”

 

Peter’s head snaps round to look at Stiles so fast he hears it crick. Stiles regards Peter with fond amusement and Peter knows that Stiles is aware of his feelings. The messy pulp of his heart on display for Stiles to dissect and assess. It’s as liberating as it is terrifying. 

 

“I can’t say I’m not tempted,” Stiles admits, twirling his spoon around his hand like a baton, “but I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. When I am, I’ll let you know.”

 

“That’s all I ask.”

 

They sit in silence for a good while after, content with just being. The radio crackles with static before playing Iron & Wine.  _ Tight black tie, too quick to laughter, ain’t no telling what he’s after.  _

 

//

 

Stiles is late for work. This sometimes happens, so Peter doesn’t consider it anything of note until Stiles walks through the front door a little after midday, looking murderous with a split lip and bloody knuckles. His white shirt is ripped, his trousers spotted with blood and he’s missing a shoe. It’s been a slow day, so there are no customers to usher into the other room. Peter approaches Stiles with concern but caution. Stiles is a live wire right now and Peter doesn’t want to be electrocuted. 

 

Blood trickles sluggishly from Stiles’ lip, his teeth are red and glistening. Peter leads Stiles to living room, calling over his shoulder for Cora to get the first aid kit. Stiles sits on the couch, folding his arms over his chest. Peter perches on the edge of the sofa beside him. 

 

“What happened?” Cora asks, grimacing when she sees Stiles’ disheveled state. Peter takes the kit from her, opening it and rifling through it searching for a cotton wool pad and antiseptic. 

 

“Deucalion and his fucking goons,” Stiles snarls. He winces when Peter starts dabbing at his lip, tries to bat Peter away. “Ouch, Jesus H. Christ, be gentle.”

 

“I am being gentle, don’t be a child.” 

 

Talia, Derek and Laura have collected in the doorway. Derek has blood smeared across his plastic visor and the front of his scrubs. Laura still has a bone saw in her hand. 

 

“What happened?” Derek and Laura ask in unison. 

 

“Jinx, you owe me a coke,” Stiles says, hissing as Peter wipes the blood from his knuckles. “That’s not gentle. Look, it’ll be easier to show you what happened.”

 

Stiles clicks his fingers.

 

And then Peter’s in the kitchen of the Lahey’s old house. Deucalion stands before him, the Twins are in the doorway behind, stoic and silent as always. Kali’s sat on the kitchen counter, picking her nails with a dagger. Her shoes are on the floor, her toenails filed into jagged red points. Ennis leans against the counter beside her, sporting a black eye and glaring at Peter suggesting that he was the cause of it. 

 

Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, a fly repeatedly buzzes against the pane trying to find a way out. Ennis makes an irritated grunting noise, slamming his hand down on the fly and squishing it. He tries to wipe the dead fly on Kali’s arm. She smacks his hand away, the dagger pointing towards his throat. This whole scene is overlaid with a distorted filter as if Peter is watching it through someone else’s eyes. He can feel rope around his wrists, looks down to see Stiles’ hands tied to a wooden chair. It’s a little disorientating. 

 

“Stiles,” Deucalion says, tilting Stiles’ head up, “you didn’t really think someone as powerful as you would go unnoticed?”

 

Peter feels his mouth move, Stiles’ voice tumbling from his lips. 

 

“Do you have this big villain monologue all planned out or can we cut to the chase?”

 

Deucalion laughs, leaning down so that his face is close to Stiles’. His breath smells like rotting fruit. 

 

“Aren’t you just delightful?” 

 

“I have a lot of teachers and Sheriff’s deputies that would disagree with you.” 

 

Deucalion hums, gripping Stiles’ chin. He rubs his thumb across Stiles’ cheek, smirking when Stiles flinches and tries to move away. He touches Stiles’ scar with an intense kind of reverence. 

 

“I want to make you an offer Stiles. You see, whilst the Hale Coven have history in these parts, we have power. And well, the powerful can rewrite history so to speak. We want to offer you a place in our coven, someone with your skill would be far more appreciated within our ranks. The Hales are comfortable in their small town ways, they would never let you reach your full  _ potential _ .”

 

“And you would?” 

 

Deucalion lets go of Stiles’ chin, leaning back. His glasses slide down his nose, revealing opaque, milky white eyes. Deucalion pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

 

“Oh Stiles, I would nurture you into the carnivorous bloom you were always meant to be.” 

 

“I… what the fuck does that even mean?” 

 

“It means,” Kali says, “that the Hale will always want to play it safe. Keep your magic contained and controlled. We’ll let you have fun.” She grins with the feral excitement of a rabid dog, black fire appearing in the palm of her hand. The fire climbs up her arm before she snuffs it out. 

 

“Kidnapping me and tieing me to a fucking chair doesn’t exactly scream fun,” Stiles retorts. 

 

“Of course, where are our manners?” Deucalion says, clicking his fingers. The ropes slanken and slide off, coiling into neat piles on the tiled floor. 

 

“Well,” Stiles says, making a move to stand up, “as fun as this has been, y’all have made me late for work, so if you’ll excuse me.”

 

Deucalion places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, keeping him from rising. 

 

“Our offer is genuine. You should take time to consider it.” Deucalion’s tone leave no room for argument. 

 

“Oh Deucalion, that dog don’t hunt.” 

 

Stiles splays his hand, sending Deucalion flying backwards into the Twins. Kali sighs, throwing her dagger at Stiles’ head. Stiles holds up his hands and the dagger bounces off an invisible shield, clattering to the floor. Ennis cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. 

 

“Alright Stilinski, time for you to learn your place.” 

 

“No,” Deucalion snaps. The Twins help him to his feet. Deucalion straightens his tie, brushing lint off his cuffs. “Leave him be, we wouldn’t want Stiles to make a rash decision on account of brawling and uncouth behaviour.”

 

Ennis slouches against the counter, dark eyes watching Stiles with the promise that this will be continued later. Kali runs her tongue along the edge of her sharp teeth. She doesn’t have lateral incisors next to her front teeth. Only large, pointed canines. 

 

Stiles blinks and Peter is back in his own body, in the present. He looks around the room, the rest of his family also coming to terms with what they’ve just witnessed. 

 

“Well,” Cora says, shaking her head a little as if trying to dislodge the vision from her mind. “Fuck.”

 

//

 

They don’t have any bandages in the first aid kit so Peter takes Stiles to the bathroom. They leave everyone else arguing about their next move, circular bickering that’s not going to go anywhere for at least an hour. Peter shuts the bathroom door, muffling the sound. Stiles flexes his right hand, watching the dried blood flake off the skin. 

 

“Ennis has a stupidly hard face,” Stiles mutters. Peter opens a drawer, rummaging through the assorted hairpins and shaving brushes until he finds bandages. 

 

“What do you want to do?” Peter asks, snipping an appropriate length of bandage. 

 

“Right now? I really fancy a milkshake, like one of those fancy ones with whipped cream that come in a mason jar with handle.”

 

“I mean about Deucalion.” Peter takes Stiles’ left hand and begins wrapping the wounds. 

 

“I’m not drinking their fucking Kool-aid if that’s what you’re thinking.” Stiles tries to take his hand away but Peter holds on tight. He brings Stiles’ fingers up to his lips, kissing them softly. It’s impulsive. Stiles makes him feel impulsive. 

 

“I want you to stay,” Peter confesses. “In the most selfish way possible, I want you to stay.” 

 

Stiles’ other hand fists in Peter’s shirt, yanking Peter closer. 

 

“How selfishly?” Stiles asks, all syrup-voiced and wicked. Peter cups the back of Stiles’ neck, eyes flicking down to Stiles’ lips. 

 

“You are a reckless, contrary brat,” Peter says, “and if I could, I’d confine you to my bed until you learned a little patience. That being said, I don’t think I’d love you if you were any other way.”

 

Stiles crashes his mouth against Peter’s. Peter guides him into something with a little less teeth and a lot more pleasure. Stiles melts against Peter, whimpering when Peter licks into his mouth. Peter places a hand on Stiles’ hip, under the ruined shirt against warm skin. It’s all very pleasant until someone bangs on the door. 

 

“Y’all done in there?” Cora yells. 

 

“We’ll be out in a minute,” Peter snaps, mentally counting back from ten. Stiles snorts, tongue licking over the split skin of his lip. 

 

“I’m hoping you last longer than a minute.”

 

“Behave.”

 

“Or what, you’ll spank me?”

 

“Stop flirting,” Cora shouts, banging on the door again. “Middle of a crisis remember?”

 

“Guess you’ll have to spank me later,” Stiles jokes, cracking up at Cora’s disgusted groan. Peter’s never been religious but finds himself praying for the Lord to give him strength.

 

//

 

After a few more hours of debate, it’s decided that initiating Stiles fully into the coven is the first thing they need to do, thinking that a clear declaration of intent might get Deucalion to reconsider. Talia heads to the office to make some calls, most of the family is scattered and it will take a few days for them to all assemble. In the meantime, it is suggested that Stiles stay in the Hale House for a little while. 

 

“What about Isaac? I’m not leaving him in my house, unprotected,” Stiles says, folding his arms across his chest. 

 

“We’ll pick him up,” Laura says, tossing the car keys at Derek. Derek flinches, slapping the keys to the floor in an attempt to catch them. “Smooth Derek.”

 

Derek flips her off, shoving at Laura’s shoulder as they head off. The front door clicks shut behind them. 

 

“Want someone to check on the Sheriff?” Cora asks. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“He’s out of town, some conference in Atlanta. Won’t be back till next week.” 

 

Stiles is restless, incessantly tapping his index finger against his arm. He’s got the energy of someone who wants to do something, anything, just to keep their hands busy. 

 

“Cora, go check on the wards,” Peter instructs. Cora looks at Peter then at Stiles, raises a eyebrow and sighs before leaving. Peter walks over to Stiles, cupping his cheek and rubbing his thumb in a soothing motion against the skin. Stiles slumps against Peter, pressing his head into Peter’s shoulder. Peter wraps his arms around Stiles, presses kisses to Stiles’ hair and just holds him for a while.

 

//

 

“House arrest sucks,” Isaac declares, tossing popcorn at Stiles. Stiles catches it in his mouth, tosses a sour candy back at Isaac, who misses it and nearly falls off the couch trying to catch it. The sour candy roll across the hardwood floor, getting covered in dust and leaving powdered sugar behind.

 

“It’s been two hours,” Peter says, “and unless you’d like to become acquainted with the mortuary cleaning equipment I suggest you pick this up.”

 

Isaac, lacking all grace and sophistication, slides off the couch and grabs the sour candy, popping it in his mouth. Peter elects to ignore the lack of decorum.

 

“Isaac gets a little antsy if he’s cooped up too long,” Stiles says, nudging Isaac’s stomach with his foot, “come on, I’ll take you for a walk. Staying inside the property line, of course.”

 

Isaac jumps up, heading for the front door. Stiles rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he stands up. He winks at Peter as he passes. Peter gives Stiles a fond smile on return.

 

Peter heads to the kitchen, grabbing a French cookbook from the bookshelf in the hall on the way. He peruses it idly, considering what to make for supper. He looks up when he hears the kitchen door slide open. Cora enters, leaning against the doorframe and folding her arms across her chest. 

 

“You and Stilinski?”

 

“That an observation or a judgment?” 

 

Cora shrugs, walks further into the kitchen and lifts herself onto the counter. Peter shuts the cookbook, putting it down on the counter. 

 

“Stiles is…” Cora pauses, clearly searching for the right word. “Morally ambivalent.”

 

“Aren’t we all?” Peter counters.

 

“To the point of recklessness,” Cora continues, “he likes splitting open his knuckles and getting blood on his teeth. Be careful with him, don’t break his heart.”

 

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll break mine?” 

 

Cora snorts, picking a orange out of the fruit bowl. She runs a finger over the skin and it peels itself. 

 

“That boy only has a tiny piece of heart left that’s not burned or broken. You break it, you buy it. And by buy, I mean you stop him from going nuclear and taking the town with him.”

 

Cora bites into an orange segment. Peter considers her warning; considers Stiles’ rage and how it burns sticky sweet and vicious. Peter has always been a little masochistic, but somehow he thinks that being burnt might be worth it in this case.

 

A bell tolls, deep within the foundations of the house, loud and clear. Cora looks at Peter, mouth parting in shock. 

 

“Someone’s tripped the wards.”

 

//

 

They find Stiles slumped against the fence that marks the property line, trying to put his left arm back into its socket. Stiles snarls, making a complicated gesture with his right hand and his arm moves of its own accord. There’s a loud crunching noise and Stiles can use his arm again.

 

“What happened?” Cora asks, scanning the perimeter. The woods beyond the property line seem empty but the air has the metallic tang to it, the distinct scent of Deucalion’s magic. 

 

“Deucalion’s penchant for manipulation may have got the better of Isaac and myself,” Stiles mutters, allowing Peter to help him to his feet. “Bastard got the shock of his life when he tripped the wards but he still managed to lure Isaac over the property line.”

 

“How did you injure your shoulder?” Peter asks, running his hands over it to check Stiles has managed to put it back in right. 

 

“Isaac is… stronger than he looks. He objected to being restrained.” Stiles slips out of Peter’s hands. There’s a determination in the set of his jaw as he begins to climb the property fence. 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Stiles stops halfway, turning his head to look at Peter. 

 

“I’m baking an apple pie, what the hell does it look like I’m doing?” 

 

“Stiles,” Cora says, reaching to tie her hair back in a ponytail, “we need a plan.”

 

“The plan is to murder Deucalion.” 

 

“We need a more thought out plan,” Peter begins but Stiles scoffs, swinging his leg over the fence and landing on the other side. 

 

“I am done waiting for your extended family to turn up. The problem is here. Now.”

 

“You can’t take out an entire coven on your own,” Peter snaps.

 

“So help me and I won’t be doing it alone.” Stiles has a look about him like a gun that’s just had the safety turned off. 

 

A scream echoes from deep within the trees, a pitiful whine like an animal caught in a steel trap. Or a preacher’s son being gutted. 

 

“I’m not leaving Isaac to die,” Stiles says, blunt and uncompromising. He takes off into the woods, quickly disappearing from view. Night is falling, the trees loom large in the darkness and the air is thick with Georgia heat and magic. Peter swears loudly, slapping his hand against the fence. 

 

“I’ve got an idea,” Cora says, “I don’t know if it’ll work but it’s worth a shot.” She crouches down, reaching through a gap in the fence to grab a handful of dirt. “I’m going back up to the house, you keep Stiles from getting himself killed.”

 

“Wait, what exactly is your plan?”

 

“We got history on this land, let’s use it to our advantage,” Cora shouts over her shoulder as she runs back up to the house. Peter sighs, lifting himself over the fence and heading off into the dark.

 

The wind whistles through the trees, a soft whispering scream. Crows startle overheard, taking to the skies with indignant caws. Peter treads carefully, keeping an ear out for anyone approaching. In his apprehension of being caught unawares, Peter fails to look at his feet and ends up stumbling over something in the dark. He steadies himself using the trunk of a nearby tree, looking down to see what tripped him.

 

Ennis’ body, burned up from the inside and somewhat dismembered, resides in the roots. The blood is already dry. Sticky and black and crawling with flies. Peter grimaces, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth and nose. As Peter steps away, Ennis’ body starts to sink into the ground, as if the roots are dragging him down. Peter supposes that’s where he belongs, down in the dirt. 

 

Peter continues on, guided by Stiles’ furious roars and Deucalion’s mocking laughter. They were distant but now are becoming sharper. Clearer. Peter thinks he’s getting close when Kali emerges from the shadows. No longer the perfect, poised Southern beauty, her dress is tattered and torn, her feet bare and covered in mud. Her hair is wild, fulls of leaves and bits of twig. She bares her teeth at Peter, incisors gleaming. 

 

“Your boy is certainly putting up a good fight,” Kali says, rotating a dull hunting knife in her left hand. “Such a wild little thing. I can’t wait to break his spirit. But first, I’m going to break you.” 

 

Peter adjusts his stance, making sure his feet are apart and planted. He slows his breathing, pays attention to the earth beneath him, to the dirt and the roots and the thumping, writhing life of it all. This is Hale land, there is a history here and Cora’s right. He’s going to use it to his advantage. 

 

Kali charges. 

 

Peter lets her build her momentum before side stepping her. She makes a swipe at him and slices his shirt open but doesn’t touch skin. Peter rotates his left hand, splaying his fingers and sending Kali shooting backwards. Her feet send up piles of dirt as she goes. Kali shrieks, coyote wild, throwing a ball of black fire at Peter’s head. Peter dives to the ground, rolling out of the way. He plants a hand on the ground, sending a pulse of energy which ripples through the earth and throws Kali off balance. 

 

“Oh you like to play games,” Kali snarls, her eyes manic with a twisted kind of glee, “alright, let’s play.”

 

Peter gets thrown backwards, smacking into a tree. He winces, a pinprick pain spreading across his ribs. Kali throws her hunting knife at Peter’s head. He manages to move out of the way but it clips the top of his left ear. 

 

Peter grits his teeth against the pain, channels it into his magic. It’s hot and alive beneath his skin, desperate to be pushed to its limits, to its full potential. That’s when he feels it, like a door opening in his mind. Peter can feel the power of his coven pouring through it, can see them briefly in his mind’s eye, each member across the nation completing rituals to lend him their strength. Peter wrenches Kali’s knife out of the tree where it landed. 

 

“You know what the problem with your coven is Kali?” Peter says, getting to his feet. “You’re all powerful individuals but none of you are really a team. I mean, you follow Deucalion around, his hunting dogs doing as you’re bid but you’re not interested in pooling your resources. Ennis is a burnt out husk back there and you don’t seem very torn up about it.” Peter twirls the dagger around in his hand, his magic amplified and bubbling over in his veins. It is glorious. Heady and aggressive with a moonshine burn. 

 

“Ennis was weak,” Kali spits, “we have no use for those bested by others.”

 

“I guess Deucalion will have no use for you then.” Peter throws the dagger. It lands with perfect accuracy in Kali’s left eye. She roars, pawing at it to try to remove it, blood spraying like a broken fire hydrant. Peter brings his hands together, chanting under his breath. His coven chants along with him, their voices in unison, their magic as one. Peter spreads his fingers, opening his hands, palms up and releases a beam of gilded light. 

 

It obliterates Kali. She is reduced to ash and bone fragments, fluttering in the wind. 

 

“Two down,” Peter murmurs, “three to go.”

 

//

 

Peter finds Stiles in a clearing, the head of one of the silent twins in his hand. He holds it aloft like a trophy, his face streaked with blood. Deucalion stands at the other end of the clearing, his mouth upturned in mild amusement. 

 

The other twin and Isaac are locked in a savage fight, using only their brute strength. Isaac’s eyes glow gold and he appears to have grown thick sideburns as well as claws and fangs. The twin manages to get ahold of Isaac’s shirt, lifts him up off the ground before slamming him down. Isaac whimpers in pain. He tries to crawl out of the way, clutching his ribs. 

 

Stiles throws the head at the twin. It bounces off the twin’s chest before rolling away into the darkness. Despites the seriousness of the situation, Peter can’t help but laugh at the awkward comedy of it all. His laugh catches the twin’s attention. The twin lumbers towards him. It’s then that Peter notices the blank look in the twin’s eye, the hollowness behind the pupil. The twin is empty, a puppet with Deucalion manipulating the strings. 

 

A thick rope wraps around the twin’s throat, pulling him onto his back. Stiles and Isaac hold the other end of it. They pull the rope tighter and tighter until the twin’s head pops off like champagne cork. Blood spreads across the ground, viscous and black in the moonlight. The body sinks into the dirt, reclaimed by the earth. Deucalion claps as if he’s just watched an entertaining piece of theatre as opposed to the decimation of his entire coven. 

 

“Bravo, I must say I wasn’t expecting such methods, but you all did marvelously.” Deucalion removes his glasses, crushing them in his hand. He raises his other hand to his face, covering his eyes. There’s a strange, sizzling sound, like meat on a griddle. When Deucalion removes his hand, his blue eyes glitter in the dark, malformed fireflies watching Stiles’ every move. 

 

“Something tells me you wanted me to kill your cronies,” Stiles says.

 

“Clever boy,” Deucalion purrs, “when we came together to form this coven, Kali and Ennis were somewhat distrusting of my intentions.”

 

“Gee I wonder why,” Isaac mutters, using the back of his hand to wipe blood from his mouth.

 

“They edited the spell that bound us together, robbing me of my sight in an attempt to control me. But I am a far more gifted caster than they gave me credit for, I edited the spell as well, making it so that when they died their power would transfer to me and I would be able to restore my sight. I just needed someone powerful enough to best them and the good Lord did provide.” 

 

Deucalion splays his fingers and Isaac goes flying. He knocks his head against a branch, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Peter tries to take a step forward and finds himself held, invisible chains anchoring him in place.

 

“Come with me Stiles,” Deucalion croons, extending a hand, “you and I are destined for things far greater than this backwoods town. We could be so good together. These people will never understand you like I do.” 

 

Stiles catches Peter’s eye, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll take typical villain monologue for 500.” 

 

Deucalion sighs, dropping his arm. 

 

“So disappointing, so much wasted potential. Never mind, I’ll enjoy sucking the magic from your bones.” 

 

Deucalion and Stiles clash in mid air, light and sound and fury. Peter wonders if the birth of the universe was like this, kaleidoscopic and catastrophic in its violent fevor. He hears the crack of bones, sees the sprays of blood but cannot tell who is winning. It’s overwhelming to the senses, the heat and taste of their magic as they try to rip each other apart. 

 

Then it all fades. 

 

Stiles has slammed Deucalion into the ground, his hand covering Deucalion’s face. Roots spring from the earth, binding Deucalion to the forest floor. Stiles is panting, the side of his cheek knitting itself back together. 

 

“My goodness gracious let me tell you the news,” Stiles whispers in Deucalion’s ear, “God’s come to cut you down Deucalion, best make your peace.” Stiles keeps a hand on Deucalion’s throat as he turns his head. “Isaac, you alive?” 

 

Isaac staggers over, face dirt smudged. He kneels beside Deucalion, grinning crookedly. He lifts his right hand, his claws glinting and slices Deucalion’s throat open from ear to ear. As with the others, the forest claims Deucalion’s body for its own. It disappears into the soil, leaving only bloodstains as evidence it was ever there. Whatever was holding Peter down disappears and he stumbles across the clearing. Stiles meets him halfway, yanking Peter into a kiss that is all copper and salt. They rest their foreheads together, panting into each other’s mouths.

 

“It’s over,” Stiles murmurs, “it’s done. God, I thought I was gonna die and never be able to tell you I love you.”

 

Peter kisses Stiles again, sweet and gentle. He cups Stiles face, wiping blood from Stiles’ cheek.

 

“Hey guys,” Isaac says, reminding them that he’s still here. “I can’t feel my legs, I think you might have to carry me back.”

 

Despite the numerous injuries, all three of them manage to make it back to the Hale house without too much hassle. Derek and Laura meet them on the porch, taking Isaac off their hands. Stiles runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when he realises all he did was run blood through it. 

 

“Urgh gross, twin blood. God, his head was hard to get off. How did you get Kali by the way?”

 

Peter spots Cora through the window. She gives him a wry smile before turning her attention back to Isaac and cleaning his wounds. 

 

“I used the strength of my coven.” 

 

Stiles snorts. “You used the power of friendship to defeat the bad guys?”

 

“What? No, a simultaneous ritual in which I borrowed their strength and gave the bodies of Deucalion’s coven as a sacrifice to the land.”

 

“Ok, you can leave the car outside, everyone knows you drove there.”

 

“I… what are you talking about?” 

 

Stiles shrugs, putting an arm around Peter’s waist to pull him close. Stiles smiles, pressing a quick kiss to the hinge of Peter’s jaw.

 

“Let’s save water by showering together,” Stiles suggests, “and you can tell me all about how the power of friendship saved your life.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes but follows Stiles inside with fondness fluttering in his heart.

 

//

 

Peter sits with his back to the headboard, waiting on his bed for Stiles to finish in the bathroom. He sips the healing tea that Talia brought him, the pain in his ribs fading with every intake of the hot liquid. Stiles enters, dressed only in black boxers, towelling his hair dry. This is the first time Peter has seen him without clothes, notes the scars at his collar and top of his bicep, the remnants of the accident permanently etched across his skin. Except those ones he can hide.

 

Stiles drops the towel on the radiator, slinking across the room to climb onto the bed. He throws a leg over Peter’s lap so that he’s straddling Peter. Stiles smiles, coy and dirty. Peter puts his tea on the bedside table, cupping the back of Stiles head to pull him into a desperate kiss. Stiles moans, lips parting to allow Peter to lick into his mouth. Stiles grinds down, jerky little hip movements that Peter guides into a smooth roll. 

 

“Want to fuck you,” Stiles pants, hand sliding down Peter’s chest to settle on a nipple. Peter shudders, nosing at Stiles’ cheek to bring Stiles’ mouth back to his. 

 

“Don’t think my ribs can take that just yet,” Peter admits, dragging a hand down Stiles’ back to grab Stiles’ ass, “though if you were willing to compromise and suck me, well I’d certainly be amenable to that.” 

 

“As long as you return the favour.”

 

“Oh darling,” Peter purrs, nuzzling Stiles’ neck, “I’d be delighted.”

 

Respective clothes shed, Stiles slinks down to settle between Peter’s thighs. He breathes over Peter’s cock, tongue reaching out to lap at the head. Such a tease. Peter places his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, firm but more about having something to hold onto rather than pushing Stiles anywhere. Stiles smirks before taking Peter down to the hilt. Pleasure vibrates through Peter’s spine as he tries not to buck his hips up. 

 

The sight of Stiles hollowing out his cheeks for a few shallow bobs of his head before taking Peter down to the hilt again is orgasming inducing all on it’s own. Stiles moans, grabbing one of Peter’s hand and placing it in his hair. Peter starts pulling, the locks silken under his fingertips. God Stiles is eager, sloppy but practised, reducing Peter to low grunts and moans. Stiles moans as he slides his tongue over Peter’s frenulum and Peter starts to come, hands gripping Stiles’ hair. 

 

Peter slides down the bed, feeling warm and sated. Stiles positions himself above Peter’s mouth, painting Peter’s lips with precum before Peter opens wide. Stiles grips the headboard as Peter makes quick work of reducing Stiles to incoherent whines. Peter is rough, fingers gripping Stiles thighs and leaving bruises. He has a feeling that Stiles likes it that way and is rewarded with a ragged gasp, Stiles hips bucking forward. He teases Stiles’ foreskin with his tongue and then Stiles is coming, Peter’s name lost in the deep moan. 

 

Stiles slips down beside Peter. They kiss, sharing the taste of each other. 

 

“We’ll probably have to shower again,” Stiles says, hands wandering across Peter’s chest. 

 

“Hmm, I think we’ve got another round in us before that becomes necessary,” Peter replies, flicking Stiles left nipple. Stiles gasps, short and breathy. “Let’s see how responsive you really are.”

 

//

 

The Hale Coven assembles, the sprawling, raucous mass of them descending on the Hale house over the next few days. Stiles spends a lot of time hiding in Peter’s room, seemingly nervous at the thought of being formally invited into the coven. Peter finds him lurking under the bed, staring at the wooden bed frame like it holds all the answers. 

 

“You going to come say hello anytime soon?”

 

Stiles bites his lip before sighing.    
  


“I know it sounds stupid, but what if they don’t like me? And my scar, it’s so obvious and ugly. I mean, normally I don’t care but I want to impress them, I want them to think, I’m, I don’t know, worthy.”

 

“Well,” Peter says, reaching out to take Stiles’ hand, “I adore you, so I guess they’ll just have to keep quiet about their reservations unless they want to find out what their own teeth taste like.”

 

Stiles smiles. It’s tender and beautiful. 

 

“You’d fight em’ for me?”

 

“Darling, I would fight anyone for you.”

 

Peter coaxs Stiles out from under the bed. He straightens Stiles suit lapels, pleased to note that Stiles looks dashing in the three piece red suit Peter picked out for him. 

 

“Your scar is not ugly,” Peter says, placing a swift kiss on Stiles’ hairline where it begins. “It’s a mark of your survival and resilience. And honestly, if you want real ugliness, take a look at Uncle Lester, he’d scare a buzzard off a gut pile.”

 

Stiles laughs. Peter takes his hand and they go downstairs together. The house is buzzing with conversation, Hales and associates milling about swapping gossip and stories. Stiles sticks close to Peter as they wind their way through crowd but lets go of his hand and stops when he spots Boyd chatting with Isaac. 

 

“You didn’t tell me Boyd was in the coven,” Stiles says, mock outraged and pointing an accusing finger at Peter.

 

“You didn’t tell me Isaac was a werewolf,” Peter replies. 

 

“It wasn’t my secret to tell. Although I’m surprised you didn’t work it out given Isaac’s habit of decimating local chicken populations.”

 

“You know he needs a pack, we can’t keep him with us and magic won’t change him back.” 

 

Stiles shrugs. “He lives in my house, we’re keeping him. Don’t worry, once you get past the snark and the scarves, he grows on you. Like mould, you know.” 

 

“Stiles, we’re not keeping him.” Stiles has already started to wander to talk to Boyd. “Stiles, he’s not a dog.  _ Stiles _ !” 

 

“Hey Boyd, how’s it going?”

 

“Stilinski, it’s going ok. Grandma drove the ridemower shitfaced and now we got corn maze. Suppose that’ll be useful come Halloween.” 

 

“Your grandma is absolutely delightful, is she here?”

 

Peter watches Stiles chatting animatedly with Grandma Boyd and thinks that this will be easy. Loving and being loved by Stiles will be easy. Coyotes holler in the woods behind the property line, Stiles manages to get half the family crowded round the coffee table for a game of Texas Hold em’ and somewhere in the house,  _ God’s Gonna Cut You Down _ by  _ Johnny Cash  _ plays on a radio.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr - neglectedtuesday / kblairpoetry


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